


Potassium

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Murder, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Blackmail, Case Fic, Extortion, Gun Violence, Other, the Ice Man melts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 18:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: The symbol- k- is from the Latin word for alkali- kalium. An essential part of blood, potassium compounds are important to the central nervous system and to drive many of the chemical processes that occur in the human body. There are quite a few bodies in this story, and not all of them are alive!  Like all of the Periodic Tales, this one has case fic taking place with Sherlock and John, with a back story about something that happened in his past.





	Potassium

**Author's Note:**

> Potassium almost never occurs in its pure state, because elemental potassium is extremely reactive. If it comes into contact with water, it causes a violent release of hydrogen, a feature that keeps chemists who work with it in top physical condition as they flee for their lives from the resulting explosion and flames. If potassium was a human, it would be court-mandated to take anger management classes. If you think this is Sherlock's problem, think again...Mycroft was not always the Ice Man.

 

"Any ideas? Anything at all?" Lestrade tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but he was running on empty and needed Sherlock to come up with something. "If there is anything you can tell us, then we might know where to start looking."

There was no answer from the figure in the doorway of the industrial unit. He'd been stopped there by Lestrade as the last of the photographs were being taken by the forensic crew. The explosive flash and whine of the camera was going off like machine gun fire. Beside Sherlock who was shielding his eyes from the flash gun, John was looking uncomfortably at the amount of blood splashed on the concrete floor of the room.

"Who discovered the crime scene?" The baritone that asked the question sounded a little husky. Greg grimaced at the raspy tone, and the slightly nasal blurring of his normally crisp consonants. Sherlock was suffering from a bad cold, and the moment the pair arrived, Lestrade had been told by the doctor not to keep the invalid at the crime scene for long. It was freezing cold in the metal walled room, a typically February sort of day- damp, cold, and grey.

The DI answered quickly, "Council surveyor. Turns out, they're trying to sell this dump off."

That provoked an eyebrow to rise under the dark curl that had fallen forward onto Sherlock's forehead. "This estate has been empty and decaying for decades. Brent Council wanted to sell the land years ago, but hasn't been able to because of law suits. What's changed?"

To Lestrade's left, with her back against the wall of the room, Sergeant Donovan huffed. "Who cares? What's that got to do with all this blood? If you're going to be any use to us, just do your party trick and give us an idea of where to look for the body."

Throwing a look at his sergeant that silenced her, Lestrade shoved his hands back into his coat pocket, and tried to shift his shoulders to keep warm. His feet were like blocks of ice. "According to the surveyor, the company that owns the units finally went into liquidation a week ago, and the Council wants to move before the administrators try any funny business. I got the impression that Brent Property Services wants to sell the land to a property developer for luxury flats, but is keeping it secret until they can get a proper valuation."

"Interesting." There was an attempt to stifle the cough that followed that observation.

That answer made Greg worried about Sherlock's health. If he'd been on top form, he would have shredded Sally for her comment. The fact that he couldn't summon the energy to do so told him that the cold was really bothering the man. Even stopped at the doorway, now that the flash gun had stopped, Sherlock's red-rimmed eyes were roving over the patches of blood – there were more than a half dozen distinct areas of pooled blood and a few splashes and scattered fat drops. The Crime Scene Examiner put the camera down and knelt again at one patch, down on her knees with a swab, taking another sample. She looked up at Sherlock's comment. "We won't know anything about the victim until the DNA tests come through. There's a backlog at the moment, so my guess is it won't be before Thursday."

For once, Lestrade had managed to draw someone other than Philip Anderson, and he was grateful that the young woman seemed more focussed on her work than on harassing the Consulting Detective, who was now shifting a bit impatiently in the doorway.

Sherlock sniffed. "John, a medical opinion, please. Would you say that there is sufficient blood volume here to have resulted in a death?"

The reply was instantaneous. "Yes. God, yes, more than enough."

Lestrade's eyes widened, "What, we're missing  _two_  bodies?!"

That got a smirk in reply. "I doubt it. More likely, none at all."

Sally scowled. "What the heck does that mean? Even Watson says there's at least a body's worth of blood on the floor."

"Once again, Sergeant, you see but do not observe."

The CSE stood up and said to Lestrade, "I'm done."

With that, Sherlock was in motion, moving away from the door toward where the forensic tool box was sitting, gaping open. He reached in and grabbed a set of numbered markers, holding them out behind him, rasping, "John." The doctor followed and collected them from the outstretched hand, which now dived into a pocket and came out with blue forensic gloves and his pocket magnifier, which he held between his teeth. In a quick manoeuvre, Sherlock slipped on the gloves while dancing his way between the puddles of blood to the far corner of the room. John did his best to follow, stepping carefully to avoid contaminating the site.

Sherlock knelt down by the splash of blood in the corner, examined it with the magnifier, and then dipped his gloved finger into the almost dried blood, bringing it up to his nose. He huffed. "This cold is a nuisance; I can't smell how old it is."

That made the CSE woman look back at him, startled. "You can tell the age of blood by its  _scent_?" She sounded awestruck.

"Usually, but not today." He grimaced, and then sighed. Lestrade watched as Sherlock then  _tasted_  the blood on his finger.

"Oh,  _gross_!" Sally exploded. "That's  _so_  disgusting."

John hunkered down beside Sherlock and said quietly, "not the most hygienic thing you've ever done, Sherlock. There's bound to be bacteria in here, which isn't smart, given the state of your immune system at the moment."

Sherlock sniffed. "Needs must. Taste is a poor substitute for scent, but it will tell me about the rate of evaporation of the liquids in the blood. The potassium and sodium levels in the congealed blood can be detected as salinity on the tongue. The more evaporation, more saline it tastes, the older it is. And the haemoglobin's iron oxidises over time, changing the taste, too. So, my tongue tells me something already that none of you have realised yet." He stood up, before gesturing to John and then pointing down at the splash. "One."

Obediently, the doctor set the marker beside the blood.

For the next ten minutes, Lesrade watched from the centre of the room, as Sherlock moved, knelt, swiped a different finger across different places on the floor, licking his finger and then getting John to place another marker. On several occasions, he knelt down at places where there was no fresh blood, just dirty concrete. At one, he actually got all the way down so he could lick the floor, and Sally just groaned in disgust. The CSE officer turned to Lesstrade with a frown. "He's contaminating the scene with his saliva."

Greg shook his head. "His samples –hair, saliva, fingerprints, footprints, you name it- are all on record and will be eliminated. The testing service do it automatically; just make sure you tell them he was at the scene. Same goes for Watson."

By the time Sherlock was finished, another seven markers had been placed, in addition to the six that had been identified by the CS officer.

Finally, he stood and raised his hands under his chin, steepling just the two index fingers.

"Well?" The Detective Inspector tried not to sound too exasperated.

There was a pause.

"Come on,  _gimme_. Tell me why I got you out of bed."

That raised a wry smile. "By my estimation, Lestrade, at least four of the six obvious blood pools are different ages." He pointed to one near to where Greg was standing. "That one is the most recent- possibly last night or late yesterday. And the one next to it may only be few hours older. But the balance of probabilities says that those two are going to be the only ones where the DNA matches. The other four your CS officer identified – the obvious blood pools and splashes- are all at different stages of congealing and they were put there between four and seven days ago."

The DI looked down. "You can tell all that from just looking and _tasting_?" He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice, without much success. "How is that possible?"

Sherlock was still looking at the floor. He coughed to clear his throat, and then explained, "When blood dries in cold conditions, it separates into constituent parts- each of which has a separate signature- scent, look and taste. I can get basic answers faster that way than any chemical test. Your forensic processes will take days – and your assumption that all of this came from the same person at the same time is an example of how misguided your evidence collection is- and how likely it is to fail. You missed seven other deposits," he stopped to point to the markers John had placed "because you were looking for fresh blood. If you take samples, you will find older blood- months for sure, maybe even years, decades older."

Lestrade looked stunned. "You think this is…what, the work of a serial killer?"

"No. Apart from one place, over there..." he pointed into the corner where he had first started, "I don't think anyone died here. For the most part, this is the work of professionals."

Before Greg could digest that observation about the perpetrators of all this blood, Sherlock asked, "Where's the chair?"

"What chair? The room was empty when we got here; the surveyor didn't mention any chair." Greg looked around at the obviously empty room in confusion.

"There was a chair- most recently, right where you're standing. It's been moved around over the years."

Greg hadn't a clue what he was talking about, but he looked down at the floor beneath his feet; there was a small square patch of bare concrete, an oasis between blood patches.

Sherlock's nose sounded like it was getting more stuffed up, but he managed to croak out, "What isn't there is just as important as what is; the void is the size and shape of a chair, and there are several more around the room. Get your men to search outside or the neighbouring units, any rubbish heaps around- you've looking for a chair, or bits of it. They might have broken it up, to try to hide it."

"Sherlock, what are you on about? What does a chair have to do with anything that happened in this room?"

"Everything. This is an interrogation room. It's been used repeatedly, probably for over decades but not necessarily to kill."

"What?!"

"You're standing where the chair that held the suspects was last placed. The blood splatter proves it. Someone was badly beaten there, but the blood goes in splashes. So, no knife play involved there."

He turned and pointed to the largest of the blood pools- about a half meter in diameter. "That, on the other hand, is where someone used a knife to scare a prisoner, threatening to leave him to bleed to death. John, based on that patch alone, would you say it's about a pint and a half of blood?" When the doctor bent over the pool and then nodded, Sherlock continued, "Enough to be felt, but not enough to render unconscious the person being questioned so, scare tactics, used by someone who knows something about blood loss and pain as a means of extracting information."

Sherlock spun around and pointed to the area next to where the CS Officer was standing. "When you get your test results back for that area, you'll find the blood is diluted, and the tests will show it was with water. I suspect a water-boarding occurred there. The pattern of blood drying on the concrete shows it was washed there, probably off the person being tortured. It doesn't take much to convince someone they are drowning; so, again, this was done by someone who knew what they were doing."

Then he pointed to the far corner, the first area he had investigated. "That one is different. It's old. And when the tests are done, I think it will come back as cerebral-spinal fluid, not blood. The potassium levels are different. That one's probably from a fractured skull that could have resulted in a dead body. I'll come back to that in a minute."

He now turned to Sally Donovan. "You asked why it mattered about the council's plans to sell this. I think the people who have been using this over the years had no idea that the property is up for sale. It's been going derelict slowly over the past twenty years, and it became the "go-to" place for someone who wanted answers, without the niceties of a judicial process. It's secure, away from prying eyes, no one to overhear something or someone, no matter how much he screamed. Perfect location- and they are increasingly hard to find in central London- an inconvenient consequence of re-development and urban regeneration. The court case that kept this site derelict was very useful to whoever ran this room."

His brow furrowed. "That they were professionals is clear when you realise that none of this blood adds up to a fatality- except perhaps that one in the corner, the possible fractured skull. That might have been an accident…" He slowed down for a moment, and then nodded, "Most probably an inexperienced interrogator who let his emotions get in the way of his objective- hit him too hard."

Donovan started laughing. "How on earth can you deduce that?!"

He sniffed again, and then took out a handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose. "Because, Sergeant, everything else in this room shows careful use of pain and bloodletting. And if someone wanted to actually kill a suspect after questioning, then they certainly wouldn't do it here. That would compromise the scene, and make it impossible to use again." He sniffed again. "In fact, that suggests that whatever poor unfortunate was on the receiving end of a blow that caused the fractured skull didn't die here. Or else they would've cleaned up and wouldn't have carried on using the place."

Lestrade shook his head, as if in disbelief, but turned to Sally anyway. "Go on then, you heard him as well as me; get the uniforms to scout around. See if they can find a chair or bits of one."

As she left, Greg looked at the Consulting Detective. "So, let me get this straight. You're saying there's been no murder here."

"It's a crime scene, but only GBH. You might get some DNA matches, link up a few cold cases- but my conclusion is that whoever used this place is probably too good to have left a body around for someone to discover. Waste of my time, really." He sniffed again. "Barely a two."

John stepped up to Sherlock. "Then you shouldn't have gotten out of bed for it. So, let's get you back to Baker Street."

A swirl of coat, and he was gone, leaving Greg still looking at the bloody floor in disbelief.

oOo

When the blow came, it wasn't entirely unexpected.

Cliff couldn't actually see it coming. His eyes had been carefully covered with duct tape, but his mouth and ears had been left free, so he could hear what was going on. Within moments after he'd answered the door to his flat, he'd been dreading just this sort of scenario.

The Yorkshireman had just been picking up the third suitcase; his jacket pocket had his passport and air tickets. A twelve hour flight to Brazil was the escape route. Celebrating a job well done, he'd finished his packing and now at half five in the morning was ready to roll. When the doorbell went, he had thought it was the taxi driver he'd booked to take him to Heathrow.

"Come on in; it's open. There are two bags for you to carry; I'll get this one." He'd turned to pick up the third case as a man entered the flat.

So close to getting away with it, he could almost smell the beach of Rio, the suntan oil, the sea.

Now, several nightmarish hours later, all he could smell was his own sweat, his fear. And finally the blood. The blow that came to fracture his cheekbone and brought that particular metallic tang to his smashed nose came from his left- a fist of knuckles that hit his face with such force that it knocked him and the chair he was tied to onto the concrete floor of wherever the hell he'd been taken.

There was an explosive rage behind that punch, a force strong enough to cause permanent damage. Cliff was no lightweight. All nineteen stones, 266 pounds of him would be hard to knock over in a fair fight. As he hit the floor and the air went out of his lungs, he thought that would be bad enough. Until his attacker stepped on his bound hands, making him find the oxygen he didn't know he had- enough to scream in anguish. Then hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed. As he started to lose consciousness, Cliff wished for the hundredth time that he was in Brazil.

But, he wasn't. The slim man in a black leather jacket who came into the flat when he opened the door had given him no chance to react before he hit him and then put him down on the floor. He was cuffed and gagged, trussed up like some turkey ready for the oven, before he could shout. His assailant had some sort of military training- the sort of thing you see in films. Cliff had always relied on his bulk and height to stop people from getting the better of him. It had been handy when it came to getting jobs as a psychiatric nurse. He knew how to keep unruly patients in order; his physical presence was enough to deter even the most aggressive psycho. But, this guy was something way beyond what Cliff had experienced.

While he was still face down, the tape had been put over his eyes, and Cliff's ankles were tied. The attacker didn't say a word, and then a cloth was placed over his mouth and nose, which was the last sensation he had before he lost consciousness.

When he'd woken up, all he knew was that he was tied to a metal chair somewhere cold- empty and echoing. Despite not being able to see a thing, he did manage to figure out that there was a person sitting in another metal chair about ten feet or so away. It creaked occasionally and Cliff could hear him breathing. He was no longer gagged so he asked time and time again, "What's going on? Why am I here? What do you want with me?" He'd tried shouting for help, but the man didn't answer, didn't budge off the seat. Clearly, he was somewhere where it didn't matter how loud he yelled- no one was going to come to his aid.

The Yorkshireman began to get more than a little scared at that realisation.

As time passed, he tried to think it all through, from the very beginning. When he'd first replied to the advert, and been called to the interview, he'd suspected that there was something "off" about the process. Despite applying to dozens of private nursing vacancies, this was the only one that called him to an interview. When the interviewer had started asking him questions about his last place of employment, he'd skirted over his reasons for leaving. It wouldn't do to admit that he'd been suspected of sexually abusing a patient. That was the reason why he dare not apply for an NHS position. It was his worst nightmare- he'd only just managed to convince the CAMHS in-patient unit that it was in their best interests not to investigate because it was his word against that of a twelve year old; they just didn't have enough evidence. They'd done him a reference- but it wasn't a good one, so he had struggled to get another job. Any other NHS unit would follow up a formal reference, but a private employer needing a live in psychiatric nurse might be lazy enough not to enquire further. Despite that, even private employers could read between the lines of a barely acceptable written reference.

This interview had been Cliff's last hope, so when the man conducting it pointed out how difficult it must be for a sex offender to get a job, he protested his innocence and said there was nothing on his record about any such incident.

The Welshman, who had introduced himself as a Mister Jones, told him to shut up. "We know it happened. In fact, it's not a problem. Quite the reverse. We want someone of your… talents, someone who is willing to assume a new identity."

That intrigued him, and by the end of that interview, he'd accepted the opportunity. It was simple- use the false identity they'd set up, apply for a job at The Priory that he was certain to get, given how brilliant the false CV was, and then keep an eye on one of the patients. It wasn't like he had a lot of choice. He had rent to pay, arrears to clear and a bank manager giving him grief about the overdraft. Lying to get such a great job seemed the least of his worries.

He'd done what he was told and was delighted when "Rick Malton" got the job. He settled in quickly, earned good money and providing regular telephone reports to the Welshman who had recruited him. Simple.

In fact, too simple. Cliff began to worry that it was all too easy, just ring a phone number and leave a recorded message of what the kid had done each day. His worst suspicions were confirmed when after six weeks, instead of the usual machine recorded voice mail telling him to leave a message, the Welshman picked up and told him that it was time to "put the kid out of his misery". The idea of killing a patient was not something he'd ever considered, to say the least. That said, the target of his reports was a mouthy teenager that he didn't particularly like. Holmes was too old for his taste; he preferred much younger boys. And the teenager definitely had an attitude problem. Cliff preferred the innocence of prepubescent children who trusted healthcare professionals. But, as much as he had learned to dislike the toffee-nosed Holmes, administering a fatal dose was a whole different level of criminality than lying about your CV or feeling up a boy.

The voice on the other end of the phone had been persuasive. "You will be compensated. In return, you get an escape route to the country of your choice, and a bank account there that will set you up for life. You will never have to work again. And you can choose a country which takes a more lenient attitude towards men with your predilection for young boys."

Jones continued. "In any case, the kid is a drug addict with mental health issues. You'll be doing society a favour. He's just the sort to steal the drugs and do himself in. if you follow the instructions exactly, there is no chance that this will be traced back to you. And even if they link your departure with the boy's death, it will be Richard Malton they will be looking for- not you."

The last point made by the voice on the phone was the decider. "If you don't agree to this, then we will report you to the Priory director- that you've used a false CV and give them your real name. You will never work in the health sector again- and may well face prosecution for the original offence."

After that, he'd not needed any more persuading. Handing in his month's notice, he counted down the days until his last shift and then had done the deed.  _Served the kid right- bloody spoiled brat._

Of course, hindsight was a grand thing. Instead of lying on a beach in Rio, he was tied to a chair and scared witless by what might happen next. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, nor how long he'd been unconscious after being taken from his flat. Cliff realised he needed to pee desperately, but whoever was in the chair didn't respond to his pleas. Eventually, he just let go and then had to sit there in the stink of his own urine.

Eventually, there was a ping that Cliff guessed was a mobile phone- possibly a text because there was no verbal reply. He tried again. "What's happening? Who are you? What do you want with me?" When there was no answer, he tried to stop himself from hyperventilating.  _Don't panic; it's not going to help._

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps- several pairs? He couldn't quite tell. The guard got to his feet again, his metal chair scraping against the floor.

A voice with a foreign accent said. "That's all. You can leave now." Someone used to giving orders. One set of footsteps marched away. Somewhere in the distance, Cliff heard a metal door clang shut. Still blind and bound, he sat in terror, waiting for the blow.

Mycroft looked at the wretched man. His nose was offended by the stink- not only the reek of urine, but the sweat of fear.  _This…pathetic creature tried to kill Sherlock._

On the way to the abandoned industrial site, on the outskirts of Neasden, Mycroft had kept himself under total control.  _I am a professional._  This was no different from the field work he had done overseas. He needed to interrogate this man and find out who had paid him to kill a patient under his care. He carefully put aside the thought that the particular patient in question was his own brother.  _Don't let personal feelings contaminate the process; caring is not an advantage._ He'd been well trained, and dispassion was one of the attributes that he had been able to master with considerable ease. Objectivity and distance had made him an effective operator in the past; it would stand him in good stead now. This would be no different.

As they left the hospital, he said calmly to Ranger, "Once we arrive, you are to collect your man and leave. You've done your job, and I will take over."

At the wheel, Ranger kept his eyes focused on the morning traffic on the A406, North Circular. "I can't do that, sir."

Sitting in the passenger seat, Mycroft's answer was controlled, but firm: "You can, and you will leave, once you drop me off. Your services are not required there."

"With respect, sir; they are. Not to…um…  _interfere_  with what you need to do, but this is to…" the older man paused, as if searching for the right way to say something. Ranger brought the car to a halt behind standing traffic at the stop light at the intersection with Golders Green Road. He looked over at Mycroft who kept his countenance placid, and his eyes on the stopped cars. Ranger finished his sentence quietly, but firmly, "…I'm going to be there to protect your best interests."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "Do I have to remind you are being paid, and that I am the one who pays you?"

"That as may be, but in your service, my firm has taken actions which could be misunderstood in a court of law. I need to be certain that this won't end in a way that compromises me and my men."

"It won't. I am not an amateur." He put as much distain into that word as possible.  _Good God, does he need a business card to know what I do for a living?_

"I never suggested you were. But, having a witness there could prove useful, if the person who arranged this attack tries to implicate you."

That advice was sensible. It made him think about how Ford might try to use the situation to his advantage. If Mycroft were to be found out as failing to inform the police and conducting an illegal interrogation, would his half-brother be able to use it against him?

He debated the consequences. Making the right decision required cold logic. On the one hand, he doubted that Ford would have realised yet that his proxy killer had missed his flight. Even if the news had reached him, would he have guessed why? Could he really have foreseen that not only had Sherlock survived the initial attack, but that Mycroft would have been listening in and been able to trace the killer? That line of thinking led his thoughts to a hospital bed, surrounded by medical equipment, while a doctor spoke of medical jargon and brain damage.  _Noooo._  He took a deep breath, calculated the square root of pi to five decimal places, and forced his thoughts back to rationality. He had to block out that image, those words.

 _There is SO much at stake here._ He closed his eyes and breathed deeply again, calming himself. Ever since he'd been sent the message from the office about the attack on Sherlock, he'd worked hard to keep his personal emotions away from his professional skills. He'd always been so cool and calmly efficient. He had built a reputation of knowing just how much force was needed to achieve his goals. Objective, logical, dispassionate. He had to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that argued _._ That voice wanted to scream,  _but it's SHERLOCK_. He stifled it.

The words that finally emerged from his mouth to answer Philip Ranger's challenge showed Mycroft was in full control. "Very well. You will  _observe._  Do not presume to interfere. As you might have surmised, I am…experienced in such matters. I will disguise my voice. You are not to speak- not at all. You wouldn't want him to be able to identify you by voice."

Ranger nodded. "I've already told my man to do the same. He won't be able to pick him out of a line-up, should it ever come to that." The light changed, and Ranger put the car in gear.

Their destination was not far from Wembley Stadium- in the middle of a rather run-down industrial estate. The units on either side of where Ranger parked were empty. The middle one had a rather faded "For Rent" sign on it. Ranger opened the combination padlock on the door and led the way past a derelict reception area. The two men went through a metal door into the back of the unit, where Mycroft came to a halt in front of the bound and blindfolded man who had tried to kill Sherlock.  _And might well still succeed, if that ITU doctor is right._  The little voice muttering that warning in his head was proving hard to ignore, but Mycroft did so as he took the jacket handed to him by Ranger, whose man had left it behind on the chair he had vacated. Mycroft flipped open the passport, eyed the one-way ticket between its pages, and noted the long-stay visa. He pulled out of his memory a Spanish-accented voice.

"Señor Ackroyd. At least, I presume that your passport is your proper name rather than the Richard Malton that you used to hide your identity from the Priory."

If this unfortunate specimen in front of him had been a native of Mexico, he might have been able to distinguish the speaker as coming from the Oaxaca district. As it was, the Yorkshireman raised his head, looking blindly for the source of those icy words. He blurted out "Who are you? What do you want?"

Mycroft leaned in and spoke quietly into the man's ear. "Who paid you to kill your patient?"

The man tried to stonewall. "I DON'T KNOW what you're talking about!"

Quietly, Mycroft contradicted him. "Yes, you do. You are guilty of attempted murder, at a hospital where you were employed under a false identity. You were instructed to inject a lethal overdose into a patient, but to make it look like a suicide. You are not smart enough to have planned this yourself, Señor Ackroyd. But I do so hope you are smart enough to realise that the only way out of this little predicament you have found yourself in is to tell me what I need to know about who hired you."

"Who are you?" There was real fear in the Yorkshireman's voice now.

Rationally, Mycroft knew that the nurse was not the prize he sought. He also knew that there would be at least another layer of intermediary between this idiot and his real target. Ford was far too accomplished a plotter to have left any evidence trail to implicate himself. If Mycroft was to turn the situation to his advantage, he had to play this very coolly indeed.

"You should be glad, that I am not here at the request of the person who hired you, or the person who instructed him to blackmail you into administering an overdose. If I were, this would be a short conversation. If I worked for them, I might be more than happy simply to put a bullet in your brain, in order to tie up a loose end."

The trussed up man tried to bluster. "I don't have a clue what you're on about. If I'm guilty of what you say, then turn me over to the police.""

That made Mycroft laugh. "I'm sure you'd like the comforting thought of due process. But, alas, your real employer wouldn't allow you to face the scrutiny of the judicial process. Turning you over to the police would almost certainly get them excited enough to kill you. And even if you asked for police protection, I think both you and I know that it wouldn't be enough to keep you alive. Remand prisoners are just so easy to suborn. Hardly takes a decent bribe these days to find someone to remove you, well before any trial. Much easier if you just tell me who hired you."

"Get stuffed. I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh dear. I was afraid that you wouldn't be open to reason. Very well."

Mycroft reached for the belt around the prisoner's trousers, unbuckling it and pulling it free.

"What're you doing?" The Yorkshireman was getting really scared now. His legs were tied to the chair, but he squirmed as if trying to protect his groin.

He bent down to whisper quietly into the prisoner's ear, "I'm convincing you that co-operation is your only option." Mycroft grabbed the man's cuffed hands, suddenly wrenching them upwards, back over the Yorkshireman's head, and then threaded the belt through the plastic cuff. Looping the belt around the back of the chair, he pulled tight and buckled it. Ackroyd couldn't move his arms or hands at all.

Mycroft took the man's index finger of his right hand and started to bend it backwards, commenting mildly. "I am reliably informed that a hyperextension trauma of the proximal interphalangeal joint of the right index finger is extremely painful."

Mycroft kept pushing the finger back, past ninety degrees and further. Somewhere around a hundred and ten degrees, the joint exploded.

Ackroyd screamed.

"Thank you for confirming that fact. It remains to be seen how many of these you can sustain without passing out from the pain. Of course, that escape will only be temporary and I will resume once we have woken you up again."

Mycroft's hand coiled itself around the next finger on Ackroyd's hand and started to bend it back. "I do so hate repeating myself, but it seems I must. Who hired you?" He kept bending.

The man wailed, "I don't bloody know, do I? That's the whole point. A Welsh guy…said his name was Jones… but he could have been anybody; half of bloody Wales is full of Jonses. I just spoke with him on the phone, after the first meeting. That's all I've got- a phone number."

 _At last._ Mycroft smiled. It was depressingly common fact in his line of business that a judicious use of inflicted pain seemed to loosen tongues. He eased the pressure a little on the finger, and leaned in to say quietly. "Now listen very carefully. I'm going to tell you some things, and you're going to nod if I'm right. First, you were promised a new life, relocation in Brazil, if the one way ticket in your pocket is any sign."

The man nodded, frantic to stop the middle finger being pushed any further.

"And you were promised money- presumably a bank account in your name has been set up. Did you telephone your contact to tell him that the deed was done? And did you then check with the bank that the funds had been transferred?"

He nodded frantically again.

"Presumably, you've been reporting regularly to the person who hired you. By mobile phone?, one given to you for just this sort of call?"

There was a momentary silence, then a shouted "Yes!" when Mycroft resumed pressure on that finger.

"You're going to use your own phone to call that number now, and tell the man that you have to meet him at your flat. A complication has arisen, and you can't tell him about it over the phone, because it would incriminate you both."

The prisoner whimpered, "he won't come; I'm supposed to be half way to bloody Brazil by now."

Mycroft pushed the finger back another few centimetres, provoking a shriek, which he ignored. "You'll tell him you missed the flight because you realised that there's evidence that incriminates him as well as you and it needs to be cleared up. You won't leave until it's sorted, so he has to meet you at your flat."

Ackroyd was panting from the pain. "He'll…think I'm trying… to blackmail him."

"Indeed. I am  _counting_  on that fact. It will ensure he turns up."

"If I do this, will you let me go?"

"Yes. I have no further use for you; it's the person who hired you that matters to me."

"Awright, I'll do it. Just let go of my finger."

Mycroft released the man's finger, and then undid the belt buckle, stepping away as Ackroyd yanked his hands back down into his lap. His wrists were still cuffed, but he was still able to use his left hand to explore the damage done to his fingers. He moaned a little.

Mycroft snorted. "You'll live. And I wasn't trying to kill you. Unlike you and your patient."

Akroyd muttered, "I don't really understand what all the fuss is about. Christ, all Jones needed to do was wait a bit, and the kid would've done it for him."

"Explain." The voice inside his head insisted, and for once, Mycroft decided to let it out to speak for him.

"I've seen it before. Losers like Holmes - posh parents try to hide the fact that he's doolally, but, take it from me; the kid's a mental defective. Should have just left him on the streets, and he'd have done himself in soon enough. Lot of fuss about a piece of rubbish."

Without warning, something ignited and drowned out every bit of calm calculation in Mycroft's head. He took a stride back towards the chair and lashed out with his fist.

The explosive force of the blow knocked the bound man and the chair over in a great clatter onto the concrete floor.

Fuelled by the memory of a pale figure on the hospital bed, Mycroft's rage burned through any rational thought as he stepped forward and put his full weight onto the man's bound hands. There was a sickening crunch of bone, and a scream of pain that just fuelled his fury. Mycroft knelt down and put his hands around the fat throat to put a stop to the noise and to the man who uttered it.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and a voice spoke in his ear. "It's not worth it, sir. Remember, he has to be able to make the call, or the person you  _really_  want to hurt will get away with it."

Mycroft allowed those hands to pull him away. Startled by the explosive reaction that had come out of nowhere, he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. He had wanted…no,  _needed_ to kill the man who was now gasping and sobbing on the floor.

He shook off Ranger's grip and walked unsteadily to the chair vacated by Forton, sitting down rather heavily.  _Where did THAT_   _come from_? He had never, ever in his entire life  _lost it_  like that. That primal urge had never occurred to him before. He'd been in situations before where he'd had to protect himself. But, he'd never  _killed_ anyone. He'd always thought such a primitive approach rather beneath him. Why would he need to, when using his brain to solve a problem was so much easier?

Mycroft's breath was still coming in short panting gasps, the adrenaline pushing tiny tremors into his legs and hands. If Ranger had not intervened, he knew for a fact that he would have killed the nurse. And that would have been a disaster of monumental stupidity. It could have cost him his job, and quite possibly the title as a convicted felon, as well as leaving Sherlock hideously vulnerable to whatever Ford wanted to do. Not for the first time, he wondered if Ford planned the attack so that if it failed to kill Sherlock outright, it might provoke Mycroft into doing something quite so stupid as what had nearly happened.

Mycroft passed a hand over his eyes and wet his lips, trying to reassert his customary icy control over the rage. Then he stared down hard at the hands that had almost strangled a man to death, his hands.  _How could that have happened?_  He was still wading through his shock, as he heard Ranger fumbling through the nurse's jacket that Forton had left behind.

"I've got his phone. You and I are going to get him back to his flat. By then, he should be able to make that call."

Mycroft got to his feet, still a little unsteady, but now back under control. "Thank you. You may have just saved more than one life."


End file.
